


sunshine

by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Consensual, F/M, I love them both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan/pseuds/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having his attention for even a fraction of a second winded her, made her feel like there was no one else in the world. (bokuyachi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Requested on tumblr, and. I love Bokuto. And I love Yachi. And.

The deciding factor, for the first couple of days that she knows him he is the most intimidating boy she has ever met. Bracingly large, with height to spare and this loud and booming voice. He is never still, fingers perpetually flexing at his sides and eyes restlessly flickering to and fro; he has this energy, snapping at the edges, fizzling underneath the surface, bright and intense and thick in the air. Every word commands attention, and every burst of laughter jolts right through her, yanks a silent gasp through her teeth. It’s so nerve-racking, simply being in the same room with him, that she often avoids doing just that. Should the boys happen to be running out of water or fresh towels, she’ll be the first to jump to the task.

It doesn’t help he’s so terribly friendly, on and off the court he is face-splitting grins and bouncing laughter, this brilliant circle of golden warmth—too much exposure to his sunshine left one breathless, dizzy with his all-encompassing smiles. Having his attention for even a fraction of a second winded her, made her feel like there was no one else in the world.

And this must be the worst part about it, how so very easy it is to believe herself utterly smitten with him. How so very easy it is to fall right into him.

The deciding factor, those brief moments in which he is quiet, eyes far too focused, his brow furrowed in concentration—shirt clinging to his skin in his sweat and face flushed with exertion, tipping his head back to swallow half the contents of the water bottle she’s offered up. She watches his Adam’s apple bob, his fingers hang open at his side, his chest expand; jumps a little when he finally tips forward to pop his mouth off the nozzle wetly. He wipes his chin with the back of his wrist, and his eyes lock on hers.

Everything freezes.

All she can think, mind going to white static, is how _pretty_ his eyes are. How scarily intense.

And then his face softens, her heart is hammering against her ribs and this kind smile is curving his lips. She can’t even bring herself to return it, her voice catching in her throat with a faint squeak.

It all crowds in on her, it’s like he’s cornering her. He’s so tall and _big_ it’s like he’s taking up all this _space_ —larger than the room itself, every breath he takes a shouting thing. Her lungs are giving in and in those moments, she is the center of the universe, the only thing that’s ever existed, every ounce of his attention settled on her and her alone, it is so incredibly humbling, so crushingly overwhelming she feels herself begin to fall into him all over again—

And then it’s over, some boy from some team is calling him by name and he can’t possibly refuse a challenge. It runs through his bones.

She comes back to herself in a rush, and realizes she’s holding his bottle.

She has the strangest impulse to drink from it.

.x.

“Well, he’s Kou,” his manager shrugs off when she very timidly asks about him. “Not much more you can say about him. He can be a handful if you let him, but he’s a good guy. Outside of…all _this_ , he’s pretty cool to hang with. Loud, obviously, but he’s funny and strange and interesting.”

She attempts for casual, face burning. “He seems…nice.”

The manager considers this, glancing up at the ceiling and then meeting her gaze decidedly. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“N—I didn’t—” she hurries to deny, hands waving frantically.

But the other girl isn’t buying it, a half smile lazily plastered on her face. “He wants one, he just really sucks at talking to girls. Don’t let him scare you, he absolutely means well. Just be certain of what you want from him, he’s dense. He needs it spelled out or he’s not gonna pick up on it.”

.x.

Part of her feels guilty, but she knows there aren’t very many ways to get him alone, here, in a training camp absolutely _riddled_ with like-minded people—most of whom, she’s mildly resentful to admit, are absolutely ecstatic to meet him in particular. As testament to his boundless energy, immediately after training for the entirety of the day, he spends his extra free time before lights out training some more. She’s already witnessed the effects it has on Hinata, how he slept in the next morning, how much he ate at breakfast. How he can manage to be up bright and early despite working himself to the very bone, she’ll never understand.

But, his manager very mindfully informs her, he always breaks off to find himself a snack before bed. And always, always takes the latest shower of anyone.

Latest to bed, no one would notice if he took a little longer than usual.

“In fact,” the other girl circled her finger in the air, “they wouldn’t mind at all.”

And so she takes the earliest shower, switches out to her pajamas and prepares her bed ahead of time. Convincing Shimizu to help her sneak out must be the hardest part, the boys are usually allowed to be out later than the girls, some policy or another, but after so very casually asking Hinata it appears there aren’t very many adults patrolling the building after hours anyway. They’re usually either playing card games in their rooms or sharing drinks together in the communal area. Much of the hallways, and almost entirely this whole half of the building, are empty by nightfall.

It’s lucky, and also vaguely concerning.

Regardless, Shimizu keeps lookout until she’s certain all of the other boys have trickled back to their rooms for the night. Steeling her nerves, Yachi slips out toward the vending machines to see if she can’t find him there.

.x.

“Oh? Are you lost?”  

Her heart skips a beat. She’d been considering buying a cookie for herself from the machine, having stood here for the past ten minutes with no sign of him anywhere. She very nearly yelps, whirling around to find him standing a few feet away. She must have been too late, there’s a towel draped over his shoulders, and he’s wearing these comfortable sweats, a worn black t-shirt. His hair is down, sticking to his forehead and ears and neck.

He looks handsome.

“N—no!” she hurries to say, waving her hands. “I was just—just—trying to get some food!”

He glances past her toward the vending machines for only a second, and then his eyes are back on her. He reaches up to take one end of the towel, pressing it against the side of his head to rub his hair dry. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and she holds her breath. “Ah, same here.”

He’s going backwards tonight. He always, always, always ate before showering. His manager had been sure of it.

“You’re the last person I’d expect out here, though,” he continues conversationally, finally approaching.

Her heart is stuttering, fists clenching hard at her sides. “I—I didn’t eat much at dinner.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he half chuckles, reaching into his pocket with the other hand to fish out some change. He’s standing too close. She can smell his soap, clean and boyish. It’s the first time she isn’t smelling sweat on him, just warm skin and freshly washed clothes.

It’s such a nice change she nearly misses what he said. “You—you _noticed_?”

He’s moving past her toward the machines, mechanically picking out some chips and popping in the right amount for them. “Yeah. Kept picking at your food—sorry, is that strange?”

She didn’t notice him looking at her, or catching the change in her expression. “No, I… I wouldn’t think you’d notice me…”

He ducks to retrieve the chips, and then straightens to grin at her. “Of _course_ I notice you! It’s hard not to, that team really stands out.”

She nearly deflates, but what had she been expecting? She’s just their manager in training, no different from the other ones. Not unless she puts her foot forth.

“What did you say you wanted? I could—”

“Y – You,” she mumbles, and he immediately pauses to cock his head. As if he hadn’t quite caught what she said. “I want… I want _you_.”

.x.

There are extra rooms here, with extra bedding. She has to build all the courage in her body just to take him by the hand, big and calloused in hers, and pull him along to one of the farther ones. He doesn’t talk the entire way there, and each second spent in silence has her nerves drawing up in her middle tighter and tighter. He never pulls away once, however, and she tries very hard to count this a good sign.

She shuts the door behind them, and nearly jumps right out of her skin when he says, “I’m not sure if I misunderstood you, but for a second there it sounded a lot like you wanted to hook up, and that doesn’t at all seem like a _you_ thing to do, so I’m very likely misreading everything but I feel the need to inform you that I got a little excited and you probably don’t wanna come any closer—or turn on the lights—or—”

There is this little shiver of excitement down her spine, this new realization that he finds her desirable enough to become… _aroused_ , just at the very thought. She gathers up a fistful of her pajama pants at the leg, swallowing down her fears and taking a sudden leap of faith. He’s standing a couple feet away, and she can’t tell where he’s looking but it’s obviously not at her. And so, when she lurches forward to timidly paw at the front of his sweats, he jolts in surprise. Her palm, _somehow_ , cups directly over his erection, and in the split second before he hops out of reach, she _feels_ it grow harder.

“I—um,” he says shakily, clearing his throat repeatedly. “I don’t know if I misread that, but—”

“Bokuto-san,” she whispers, face burning. “You’re… You’re not misreading anything.”

“O – Oh,” he mumbles, swallowing audibly. “Oh, that’s… That’s good, we’re on the same page.”

It is minutes before she can move again, and she is so grateful the lights are off. If she could see the face he’s making, or his eyes on her, she’d surely lose every single one of her wits long before she can make a move. She draws forward again, until they’re close enough she can feel his warmth, radiating off him like a furnace. He is so tall, he’s staring down at her and his breath is clouding over her, thick and hot. She reaches blindly for his chest, and instead finds his abdomen, flattening her hands. The shirt is almost thin enough she can feel the muscle underneath, quivering.

“If you could,” he mutters, shifting his weight on his feet. “If you could give me fair warning before…touching me, again, that would be… I wouldn’t be so…”

His hand skims her side, and she has to physically refrain from jumping away. He takes hold of her hip after some fumbling, and then tugs her into him.

“Just warn me,” he breathes, her fingers curling into his shirt. “I won’t refuse you.”

“I…” she hesitates, tugging at the creases of his shirt. He inches forward, as if anticipating her words. Her fingers pull downward, across his tense stomach and the waistband of his sweats, and grow clammy when his hand squeezes her hip. “I’m gonna…touch you, now.”

His other hand is flexing at his side, never still, his energy as restless as ever. It snaps against her own skin, sharpest when she, so gently, squeezes him through his sweats. His breath comes shaky, tugging her forward by the hip. Her hold breaks, his other hand catches her chin and tips her head back. He ducks down and she steels herself, just as their mouths are about to connect, he stops, as if remembering himself, and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and his lips are so warm, so soft. They mold onto hers fully, move slow and crisp and melt her right where she stands. She rises up to her toes and the hair at the back of his neck is velvety, prickling against her fingertips. He angles his head, and she falls back onto her heels when his tongue flickers out against the parting of her lips, the blunt edges of her teeth.

He nearly takes this as rejection, stumbling over apologies and retreating from her curious hands, but everything has already shifted. The air is pulsing with intention, too heavy on their shoulders to ignore anymore. Something is twisting at her middle and she wants to keep touching him, to learn the lines of his body, if the skin underneath his clothes tastes and feels as hot as it looks. She imagines the thick, rich weight of hot chocolate, on her tongue. How it burns at the back of her throat and fills her up so smooth, so comfortable. Her knees feel weak and she is throbbing between her thighs, so hungry for him she can’t technically stop herself anymore.

“Bokuto-san,” she breathes, and he’s fidgeting. So restless. “I want to keep going.”

.x.

These sheets smell stale and unused, he is the first to tug his shirt off and she is so surprised to find his skin is soft. There are thin hairs on his chest, they thicken down along his navel. Her hands tremble touching him, but he shivers and he mumbles and every pass of her sweaty fingertips along the muscles of his torso, and his sides, and his back, and his arms fizzles through him, pops against her skin like electricity—and this is where the comparisons begin to clash and slide. He is sunshine, fiery and hot and bright on her lips; his tongue tastes the inside of her mouth slick and burning. He is electric, snapping at the edges, sharp and crisp and wild; quick, his head tilts and his fingers curl around the back of her neck. It feels as if he’s consuming her right there.

His mouth jumps, teeth catching the shell of her ear, opening on the skin of her throat. Her breath hitches, fingers pressing in against his arms, and he is growing so confident. A small part of her is immediately shot back, cowering at the thought. She’s seen him confident, she’s seen the way his eyes look, the way his tongue swipes over his lips, the way his knuckles whiten and his teeth flash—he is growing excited, and there will be a tipping point, in which he outdoes himself, in which he overcomes her, in which he becomes so terribly overwhelming every ounce of energy will be sapped from her body; simply watching him from across the court had been too much, and she is in proximity now.

Flush, against him, when he circles his thickly muscled arm underneath her and pulls her right into him. Her fingers drag across his shoulder blades in some attempt to steady herself, he grinds against her thigh and he is so hard, so hot and throbbing her body jolts, her voice knots itself up at the back of her throat and her eyes are so wide. She turns her head and presses a shaky kiss to the side of his neck, the rise of his collarbone, the side of his shoulder—he shifts and curves and he is kissing her hair, gathering up the back of her shirt in his hand.

His voice sounds deeper, rumbling straight through her bones, “Can I touch you?”

Her shirt crumples up beside his, these big, big hands are trailing along her sides and they are scattered with callouses. His fingertips, the palms, all symmetrical, spotted, roughest at the edges; she traces them with her thumb when he pauses long enough to let her. This is few and far between, he is growing ever so restless. He wants to feel every inch she will allow him, prodding underneath the band until she relents, removing her bra, reaching quick around her back to unclasp and then shrug it off. He hums appreciatively, cupping at her small breasts, tipping forward to kiss at the little swells—it is all so new. The rough surfaces of his fingers drag over her nipples unwittingly and it is the first time she’s ever been touched this way, every scrap of experience she’s ever had a fumbling, awkward thing—never someone as beautiful as he, never someone she’s ever wanted half as bad.

She wiggles and twists, and he is hurrying to kiss everything in his wake. Her clavicle, the insides of her wrists, the undersides of her breasts, her delicate ribcage; he lets his tongue taste her navel, trail up, flicker over her nipples. She whines and gasps and he nips at her soft belly, the hand steadying her hip skimming over the waistband of her pajama pants. He leans over her to suck on her throat, and grinds the heel of his hand against her mound. Her thighs attempt to snap shut around his arm. He kisses the underside of her jaw, pushing his hand underneath the waistband to feel her through her underwear.

The sound hits her, over the beating air, his ragged breaths, her pounding heartbeat—the thin, thin fabric of her underwear has stuck against her, and when his knuckles press in over her it shifts and unsticks wetly and it is, for a second, so embarrassing she feels her face burn. But his mouth is at her ear, his breath hot on her skin, and every word is dripping with intent.

“I wanna taste you.”

She isn’t sure how to respond, if the dual spark of mortification and excitement should be enough sign for hesitation, or rethought, but his fingers are tugging, dipping under that waistband, too. His middle finger brushes over this budding nub and she jerks up and away with a piercing gasp. It slips over the slit of her, traces the lips and coats itself in her fluids. She’s dripping, he seeks out her entrance and she’s making it difficult, thighs closing and squeezing around him. Her eyes find his face, and she holds her breath.

He’s looking right at her.

She sees teeth, flashing, as he smiles.

“Do you want me to?’

With an unexpected—and yet truthfully unsurprising—amount of restraint, he settles his weight entirely on his thighs and uses his free hand to tug one side of her pajama pants down her hip. His other hand is stroking, it sounds slick and wet and he’s still watching her face, oddly patient.

This is a strange turn of events.

“I – I do,” she mumbles, and decidedly helps him free her of her pants. “I really do.”

“Then relax,” he says, and breaks her gaze. He’s retracted his hand from her, propping himself back up on his other hand. She can’t see all too clearly, but the sound reaches her a second later, and she freezes from head to toe.

He’s sucking on his fingers.

She doesn’t have much time to react any further than that. Something is setting off in him, some urgency she tries very hard to match. He tugs her underwear down her thighs and she doesn’t see where it lands, these big, big hands grabbing up hold of her knees. She hardly feels his weight as he jumps back on his knees, jostling her so very lightly. And then he’s settling down, guiding her thighs onto his broad shoulders.

Those small handful of times she’s done this, those clumsy boys with their clumsy hands, don’t quite prepare her for this. They’d never offered this to her, they’d never been so focused on her own enjoyment.

His nose nudges her clit, his tongue feathers out against her, he sucks on her inner thigh and tugs at her curls gently. She can’t bring herself to watch him, holding her hands over her eyes. It’s so lewd, his tongue slides and laps at her, hot and wet. His breaths puff against her, and he closes his mouth around her clit when she tries to wiggle out from it. It’s too much, too soon, he braces his weight on one elbow and his fingers are tracing her. It comes unexpected, one long, thick finger pushes between the lips and slides inside of her—his tongue works at her clit and he easily holds her in place, pins her down and curls his finger as her body tries to accommodate. She shudders, moans, and nearly bites through her lower lip when he nips at her nub. He pumps his finger slowly at first, her muscles fluttering, thighs trembling, and then carefully retracts to add a second one. It stretches her, they’re too thick, she almost loses her breath.

Her eyes squeeze shut, teeth caught around her knuckles, and whimpers breathily when he slides his tongue inside of her. His fingers part her folds, everything feels too hot, so wet. She trembles and whines, scratching at the sheets trying to steady herself. His tongue flicks and curls inside of her and her eyes are rolling back, she doesn’t realize she’s got a fistful of his hair until she feels him hum, deep in his chest. She tugs sharply, chokes out an apology, and presses him in closer when glances up at her. Her eyes are getting accustomed to this darkness, and the thin, thin streams of moonlight streaming in through the blinds reflect right off his eyes—they look just like gold.

And seeing him, his head buried between her thighs, is such a turn on she can’t quite wrap her head around it for a second. His noses presses in against her, and she comes down sobbing, trembling, nails dragging hard against his scalp. He hisses, and then sucks every drop that spills from her.

She has to nudge his head away, over sensitized.

“Did you like that?” he asks, hardly out of breath. He’s pushing himself up to his knees and guiding her legs up. His hands smooth down from her calves to her ankles, settling between her legs and letting her feet slide up to his hips; down the outsides of his thighs to his knees, sunken in the sheets.

She mumbles incoherently, struggling to center herself again. Her eyes fall down his chest, the dark trail of hair underneath his bellybutton, and lock onto the bulge under his sweats. Her mouth goes dry, she can almost _see_ its shape.

“We do have…a slight problem,” he says, sitting back. He can’t stop touching her legs, she’d just shaven them, and the smooth skin attract his fingers, up and down and up and down. Toward her hips, and then back to her knees. Her body is coming back to her, the dull throb between her thighs softening, focusing on the pull of his fingertips, the drag of his palms. He leans over her, taking her by the knees and switching his attention to her chest. “Not trying to put you on the spot—I’m okay just…doing this. But I don’t have any condoms, I—well, you can imagine I didn’t think this would be happening _at all_.”

“Oh,” she chirps, voice strained. His thumbs are rolling over her nipples, and when she shifts her legs up, she can feel the toned muscle along his sides, the lines at his hips.

“I thought,” he continues almost casually, if not for the way he watches his hands, caressing her. “I thought I was just gonna be playing board games every night before bed, not…kissing a pretty girl.”

“Bokuto-san.”

“And, well,” he pauses, framing her waist. “I want to—a lot, it’s driving me crazy—but it seems so risky, and I don’t wanna put you at risk, so—”

“Bokuto-san,” she interrupts, taking hold of his arms and pulling herself up to sit. He perks up, investing her with all of his attention.

Always a humbling thing. She nearly balks.

“I’m not,” she stresses, fingers pressing in against the corded muscle in his forearms, “going to have sex with you—if you don’t have protection.”

.x.

“They weren’t very happy to see me walking around with a boner,” he says as soon as he returns, shutting the door behind him firmly. “I mean, it went away eventually, but…”

She’s hugging a pillow, this room has grown far too cold without him. And sitting naked in the dark waiting for him, paranoid someone will walk in on her like this, has left her with far too much time to assess her own worries. He’d left his shirt here, she doesn’t imagine the other boys were very happy with that, either.

“I got it, though,” he assures when she doesn’t reply, fishing out the little packet from his pocket and lowering down onto the futon before her. “That’s…the important part, I think.”

“Who did you…get it from?” she asks, although she’s unsure she wants to know.

He scratches behind his ear, suddenly avoiding her gaze. He has enough sense, she supposes, to know this is a touchy subject. “Ah, actually—and I had to walk around awhile, keep in mind—it was from your team…Karasuno. They. One of your boys had some.”

She holds her breath, hoping he won’t say the name.

He doesn’t catch on. “Was it…S...Suga…?”

“S…Sugawara-san?”

He inspects the foil packet in the little light there is. “It’s a ribbed one.”

“I – I don’t wanna know what that means.”

“I mean, it’s not a bad thing.”

“Bokuto-san…”

“Apparently it was a shock to everyone,” he jokes, “they all stared at him like he had two heads or something.”

“Please—I don’t want to think about Suga-chan…doing those things.”

.x.

He kisses the spot between her eye and the bridge of her nose.

He touches and touches her until she’s gasping and trembling underneath him again, curling his fingers inside of her over and over. He pushes his sweats down his hips, and she can’t help staring. He leans back on his knees, and before she can stop herself she blurts, “I wish the lights were on.”

He’s already on his feet.

“N—I don’t think that’s a good—!”

The lights switch on, and she has to blink several times to adjust. He’s standing by the door, looking decidedly apologetic. “I wanted the lights on, too.”

This is admittedly an improvement, albeit a very risky one. She hadn’t realized how disheveled he looks, it must have been off-putting for the other boys to see him like this. His face is flushed, his hair tangled and messy, these irritated spots on the skin along his throat and chest and shoulder—she is slow to realize she’s the one that left them there.

He closes the space between them quickly, he latches his mouth right onto hers and kisses her until she’s melting, fingers pulling through his hair. He softly sucks on her lower lip, slowly letting go to pry her hands off. He leans back again and continues to push his sweats down his thighs. She yelps a little when his erection springs out. Consistently, he is scattered with dark hair. His forearms, his thighs and chest and lower belly. She would’ve expected a mess of it there, at the base of him. But it’s trimmed, with a surprising amount of precision.

She tries not to wonder how long he’d spent on that.          

About this time, she’s reconsidering her decision. As with everything, he’s thick and full—rigid, with this one vein trailing the side. The head is glistening, this pearly drop collecting at the slit. He lifts one hand to his mouth to tear open the packet with his teeth, and when her eyes snap up to his she finds him watching her, gaze dark. Focused.

“I…” she begins, swallowing thickly when he rips off the top. “I want to try something.”

He licks his lips, searching her face. “Anything.”

.x.

“Not _that_ ,” he protests, turning away from her slightly when she reaches for him.

Her face is on fire, she’s sitting next to him on this tiny, unused futon and she’s the only one completely naked. She shoots a furtive glance at the door, and clears her throat. “I – I thought boys… _liked that_.”

To his credit, his entire face is red. He’s loosely hugging his knees and he has this petulant frown on his face. He won’t look her in the eye. “ _Yes_ , but. I don’t—I really don’t think I’ll last very long. And considering. That. I want to. Not last… _not long_ , I really don’t think it’s a good idea? I don’t, uh. I don’t wanna finish and then not…be able to do anything, at all.”

She settles back, somewhat disappointed, and after catching her expression he hurries to clarify.

“I mean, I can. I can try again, but it’ll take a little bit. And you keep looking at the door so I don’t think you want that—the record, I have, is about ten minutes, but I don’t know if that’s cool with you. Like—ten minutes straight of me just…giving you head? I could keep giving you head—!”

“We don’t have to,” she says, waving her hands. “I just… In the heat of the moment, I just kinda wondered how it would taste like.”

He stares down at himself, frowning again. “Why?”

When she doesn’t answer, he looks at her and repeats himself. She wrings her fingers, the sheets, the end of her own hair, struggling with what to say. “It… Yours looks nice.”

His face goes blank.

“Is that weird? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Let’s do it.”

.x.

It’s intimidating. Her hand wraps around the base of him and it pulses immediately, hard. She jolts and pulls her fist up to the head—pulls a groan right from his throat. She lowers her head, encouraged, and timidly lets her tongue swipe out from between her lips to taste the pearly bead from the tip. It’s only vaguely salty, tastes mostly of clean skin. She pauses, wondering at how to follow up, and then places a lingering kiss on the head, the side of his shaft, all the way down to the base. Her tongue slides out to drag all the way up, more clean skin, and opens her mouth around the head. It isn’t a comfortable fit, she tries to suck and finds her mouth too full, dips her head lower and worries her teeth are scraping him. She blinks, and then uses her hand to stroke the rest of him, focusing her tongue and mouth on the tip of his cock.

“That’s good,” he moans, breath hitching when she sucks on the side of his length. She runs off the noises he makes, and all the things she’s heard those other girls say. She finds that one vein, and presses her tongue in against it, trailing it. He whines, his hips rolling ever so slightly. She squeezes her hand around him, tugs upward a few times, and tongues at the slit delicately. Clean skin, slowly growing slick, and then sticky, and then slick again. He’s pulsing, the skin growing darker and darker, glistening in her spit. She strokes steadily, twisting her hand up along the length. He gasps and whimpers, his voice rising, and she worries they’ll be caught at this rate.

He’s louder than she expects, and yet this is entirely unsurprising. As with everything, he commands attention.

“I, uh—mm,” he tries for, voice breaking. The muscles in his thighs jump, and she hears him swallow loudly. “I—that’s good, so _good_ , Yacchan—I just—I can’t— _please_ stop…”

She pops her mouth off, wiping her mouth with her arm. She’s breathless. “Are you close?”

“So close,” he exhales, carefully pushing himself up with a sigh. His eyes are glazed over, his mouth wet. “Too close—I want. I wanna—I wanna fuck you, Yacchan.”

She feels her heart jump.

“I can’t do that if you keep going—I won’t last at all.”

.x.

He’d certainly be able to taste himself on her tongue, but it doesn’t stop him from kissing her like that. His tongue glides across her teeth and he is so eager, hands stroking and tracing her body; her chest and her back and her thighs and her face, cupping her cheeks as he kisses her over and over and over again. He rolls on the condom and hooks her knees over his waist, bracing his weight on his elbow and knees—takes himself in his hand and guides the tip to her entrance. Her nails dig hard into his back as he shifts, and then angles himself, and then sinks down into her so very, very slowly.

So full, and so thick, and so hard inside of her she feels her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open, her toes curl in against his skin. He’s burning, he’s so warm and so big she almost feels suffocated. It takes too long to accommodate, she wiggles and turns and rolls her hips and squeezes her eyes shut when he involuntarily edges forward.

“I, um,” he mumbles breathily, lowering down against her. He swallows thickly. “I won’t last.”

He’s pulsing hard inside of her, she crosses her ankles and attempts to pull him in closer. He’s sturdier than her, holds himself above her easily, with so very little effort—his arms aren’t even shaking. She ends up bringing herself up, sliding up his length, and then snapping back down into the sheets when she realizes she can’t budge him.

The message is clear, he shifts and parts his knees and rocks downward, sinks and then retracts from the heat of her. He sighs and gasps and repeats, adjusting, tangling his fingers in her hair and working on finding a rhythm. He kisses her hairline, holds her steady, and keeps his pace. She squeezes her eyes shut, for the first couple of thrusts it borders discomfort, the strange and unfamiliar pressure, his superior weight; all the effort he puts forth not to crush her underneath him.

He is nothing like those boys.

He presses her down into the sheets, rolls his hips, and mumbles breathlessly against her forehead. He moans when she matches his pace, whispers encouragingly when she whimpers and settles his weight one arm to squeeze her hip. “That’s it—so good, you’re so good.”

It snaps against her, deep in the pit of her stomach, and out toward the tips of her fingers. She digs her nails at his lower back and he grunts, quickens his pace. He’s better at taking hints now, so focused on this task he can’t seem to notice much else.

And he gets so much louder, as a result. He groans and gasps and sighs her name and it is so nice to hear, so sweet on her nerves she feels her back arch, her thighs clench around him.

They’ll be caught this way.

Her heart nearly stops at the thought.

“B – Bokuto-san,” she whispers, and he moans her name breathily in response. His pace stutters and skips and she pushes against his chest. “Wait—wait, wait a second.”

“W – What’s wrong?” he huffs, faltering. His face twists to worry. “What’s wrong, did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no of course not,” she assures, and pauses to catch her breath. “We should—I keep thinking someone will hear us.”

It takes all of his willpower just to pull out, and then another few seconds to push himself up to stand and switch the lights back off. She regrets that immediately, it’s pitch black and while her eyes flicker around trying to adjust, he returns out of nowhere to kiss the side of her neck. He moves back into position but she wiggles away. “Y – Yacchan?” he asks, and his voice sounds small. Almost hurt.

“I – I wanna be on top.”

He’s quick to agree.

He settles on his back, and for a moment she’s sitting on his stomach sifting about with the sheets. She tugs at them, and then pulls it over his legs, and around her waist. He doesn’t question her, arranges them about her and grips at her hips to guide her backward. She has to roll her hips accepting him back inside of her, he hisses and gasps and sighs in relief when she envelopes him fully. She isn’t used to this position, no one really lets her take the lead. It casts things out of balance, she feels too tiny on top of him, thighs spread too wide. She rocks forward, circles her hips, flattens her hands on his stomach and awkwardly tries to rise up on his length.

He showers her with praises, happily matching her slow and timid pace with languid, unhurried. He rocks upward, trailing his fingers up her sides affectionately. He guides her up, and then back down, moaning shakily. She moves her hands up to his shoulders, leaning forward and settling on her knees. It makes things easier, her belly slides against his abdomen and they’re both sweaty. He bucks up into her and the head of his cock brushes this spot inside of her, sends shockwaves up and down her spine and tears a little cry from her throat.

She’s trembling and breathless and he keeps saying these _things_ , soft and pleading.

It’s exciting, sends a sharp spike of arousal down to her core, but it isn’t helping their case.

Regretfully, she clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his noises.

He hums, holding her still and grinding hard against her.

“Shh— _hhh_ ,” she whispers, voice jumping in the middle. “Y – You need to be quiet, Bokuto-san.”

“Mm,” he breathes out through his nose, and she jolts when she feels him throb inside of her. It’s so hot, it sears right through her, makes her heart skip and her stomach flip and muscles quiver—his voice, so deep, rumbling in his chest. He turns his head, easily breaks her hold. “I like when you take control, Yacchan.”

And then doesn’t refuse a single thing she does from that point on.

His hand skips up to roll a thumb over her nipple, holding onto her thigh as she bounces quick on his cock. Their skin slaps together, he angles his hips until she’s clenching hard around him, eyes squeezing shut and teeth gritting tight. Her palm presses down over his mouth, he’s still groaning so loud but it’s softened—she jolts and gasps, his thumb is digging firmly over her clit. Her fingers curl and she loses pace, falling heavily on him every time. It jerks a grunt from him, makes her hand snatch away to steady herself on his chest.

“O— _Oh_ ,” she moans, sinking down on him, legs giving out.

“Come on, Yacchan,” he whispers, finally, finally showing any sign of exertion. “Let go—I can’t hold out anymore.”

And it feels like fire, and electricity. It snaps and licks up her spine and comes down in a rush, leaves her boneless and trembling, crumpled up on his chest. She vaguely feels him, slowing down for a second. And then his arm, wrapping around her back as he sits up. He tucks his face against her neck and sucks on the skin of her shoulder, spreads his fingers on her upper back and rolls her hip with the other hand.

“Just relax,” he whispers, and then molds his mouth to hers.

.x.

She almost can’t feel her own legs, and while they lie panting and sweating side by side he takes one of her hands and circles his thumb around her knuckles. It doesn’t take very long for him to bounce right back, rolling onto his side to kiss her temple, to rub his hand over her belly.

“We…” she begins, and steadies herself. He cups her face and kisses her brow. “We should get back. We should go to bed now.”

He hums, but doesn’t move for a few minutes. “I just wanna lay here for a little bit. I just wanna keep holding you.”

Yachi feels so warm, so oddly humbled. He strokes his thumb over her cheekbone, and he won’t stop kissing her face. Soft, and grateful, and golden—his all-encompassing sunshine. She melts in his arms, pulls her fingers through his hair and sighs dreamily. “Okay,” she says, and he smiles against her mouth, pulling her into him.

.x.

Shimizu is passed out by the time she returns, and Bokuto is standing outside waiting for her to wave him off. She turns to look up at him, and he’s smiling fondly.

“Can I have another kiss?” she whispers, and he bends down obediently, pecking her affectionately.

She buries herself under the covers, and is out before she knows it.

.x.

He’s, surprisingly, a little off his game the next day. The first round against some other team comes and goes and he nervously glances at the points, deflating dejectedly when his team voices their concern. A break is called, and she jumps at the opportunity to offer him a bottle of water, hopping across the space from her team’s half of the court. He perks right up.

“I’m distracting you,” she murmurs, and he downs half the bottle in one swig.

“No, I… Maybe a little,” he admits, and scratches behind his ear. “But. There’s not a lot we can do about that. It’ll go away, can’t help where my mind goes.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says, and then quickly corrects herself before he can take her words to heart. “Well, I did. I did mean to. But…we won’t do it again. I was just curious and now—”

“I like you,” he says plainly, and she blinks.

How strange. He looks straight at her, and everything else fades away.

How easy it is to fall into him, like this.

“W – What?” she breathes, and he fidgets with the cap of the bottle.

“I like you—not just the. The…other stuff. I mean, that’s cool, too!” he assures her, and he’s too loud. He’s drawing eyes. “It’s really cool! But! You know? It’s—wha—oh, sorry.”

Her eyes are so big, her hands balled into little fists. “Yeah!” she hurries to smooth over. “I thought that movie was really good!”

He furrows his brow, catches on, and then laughs a little.

“What movie?” Hinata asks, barging into the conversation.

.x.

“So, not just the sex?” she asks, and he leans back on his hands. They’re sitting on the grass outside, some boy from some team had pulled the fire alarm and now everyone is wandering around waiting for the situation to die down. Nobody really pays attention to them, mismatched as they are.

“No,” he decides, and then settles his gaze on her. “I think you’re nice. And pretty. And I wanna know you better.”

Her stomach feels oddly light. “I do, too.”

“Can I kiss you?” he blurts out, and she glances quickly around them. No one is looking.

“O – Okay. But fast, I don’t think anyone’s ready to see… _us_.”

He leans in to peck her mouth, she notes the smell of sweat, the sharp taste on his lips, and feels her heart stop when she hears a strangled noise.

“ _Yachi_?”

.x.

**Author's Note:**

> godbless


End file.
